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Chapter Text

    The forest always looked different at night.

Even with the moon’s glow casting its soft silver veil across the underbrush, everything felt slightly askew — as if the daylight trees and moss and stones had all curled up to sleep and left behind their colder, quieter reflections. Shadows seemed deeper. The wind whispered secrets. Every branch looked like it could move if you weren’t watching closely enough.

Xayah had always loved the nighttime.

As a child, she would sit outside on the wooden stoop of their little home, cradled in the safe embrace of her father’s arms as the horizon surrendered to dusk. His warmth surrounded her like a blanket, smelling faintly of pine resin, smoke, and something earthy — like rain-soaked bark.

He was a tall man, with weathered russet skin and long, wind-swept feathers that faded from copper to dark violet at the ends. They rustled softly whenever the breeze passed, mirroring the surrounding forest. His face bore the age of stories — laugh lines around his sharp amber eyes, the deep maroon of their tribes markings under them, and a scar cutting through his left brow that Xayah always thought made him look like a hero from one of his tales. He wore simple robes of deep red and forest green, stitched with symbols of their tribe: protection, light, balance. His voice, when he spoke, was low and smooth — like the hush of leaves brushing together.

To Xayah, he was everything a father should be — strong enough to keep monsters away, kind enough to let her fall asleep in his lap, wise enough to explain the stars.

One evening, as the sky deepened and the stars began peeking out from their hiding places, Xayah broke the silence.

“Iba, will you tell me a story?”

Her voice was small and sweet, cutting through the nocturnal stillness like a spark in the dark.

Her father looked down, the corners of his mouth curling into a soft smile as his eyes reflected the starlight. “Of course, iminha,” he murmured. “What kind would you like tonight?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Something about the stars!”

He chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated against her back as he lifted her onto his lap. His feathered arm wrapped around her waist, his claws gentle as ever.

“Then a star story you shall have,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple before beginning.

“Not many people know this,” he said softly, “but stars are in a constant struggle. They’re always collapsing in on themselves, drawn inward by gravity. Without something to push against it, they’d fall into themselves forever, shrinking into nothing.”

Xayah blinked up at him, her eyes wide. “So… they’re like us?” she asked slowly, tilting her head.

“In some ways, yes,” her father said, thoughtful. “We Vastaya rely on magic, like stars rely on their own light. Without it, we begin to fade. That’s why we fight so hard to protect our land — not just to survive, but to preserve the magic that gives us life.”

She nodded, small hands curling around his robe. “What happens to the stars that lose their gravity?”

“Well,” he mused, “some simply grow old and vanish. But there are rare ones… very rare.”

Xayah perked up immediately, eyes gleaming. “What kind of rare stars?!”

He pointed to a bright speck in the sky, far from the others. “You see that one? Looks like just a single star, doesn’t it?”

She squinted. “Yes…”

“Well,” he said, “sometimes a star isn’t alone. Sometimes, it finds a companion. From here, they seem like one light, but up close, they’re two stars locked in a dance so close and so eternal, they move as one. People say they were lovers in another life. When their souls became stars, their bond refused to break — even in the sky.”

Xayah stared at the glittering sky, lips parted, breathing in every word. “Can someone still find love after they’re gone?” she asked quietly, voice full of wonder.

Her father paused, caught off guard. “Maybe,” he said slowly. “But it would be hard. There are billions of stars. Finding one soul in that vastness…” He looked down at her. “…Well, it’d take a miracle.”

She yawned, her small body leaning into him. “Then I hope they find each other anyway,” she murmured, already drifting.

He smiled and rose, holding her close. Just before turning inside, she cracked one eye open and gave the sky a final glance. Two stars, close together, shimmered brighter than the rest.

    “—hold on, we’re almost there!”

“Come on, don’t give up, please—!”

“XAYAH!”

The wind screamed in his ears as he ran, feet pounding against the soft earth, lungs burning. Rakan clutched her limp form tighter, his breath ragged, eyes wild with panic.

Her body was unnaturally still. Her maroon attire, once vibrant, were soaked through with dark patches. Her face — bruised, scratched, far too pale.

“Stay with me, baby… please—”

The forest blurred around him, fog curling in from the trees like grasping fingers. Ahead, a faint golden light shimmered — hope, maybe a healer, maybe a chance — but the moment he looked back down, it vanished.

She wasn’t breathing.

The melody, her melody — the one always humming at the edge of his senses — was gone. Not muted. Gone.

He collapsed to his knees, the breath torn from his lungs as he cradled her against his chest. His vision blurred. “No, no, no, no…!”

He screamed into the sky, a sound of heartbreak so raw it seemed to shake the trees. His fingers curled in her cloak as sobs overtook him.

“Why… why did I let her go alone?”

His thoughts spiraled.

…be careful, okay? I’ll catch up soon, I promise.

…I can defend myself.

…Xayah, where are you?!

…NO!

    A gasp tore from Xayah’s throat as she sat bolt upright.

Her chest heaved. Her head spun.

Everything was white.

The bed, the floor, the walls. The very air seemed to glow. She pushed aside the thin sheet tangled around her legs and slowly swung her taloned feet over the edge. The floor was icy beneath her skin.

Where am I?

The silence pressed in. No wind. No birds. No heartbeats.

She rose unsteadily and walked to the wall, placing her palm against its polished surface. Her pale skin nearly disappeared into it.

Was this a dream?

She moved along the wall until her fingers caught on a crack — a thin seam almost invisible beneath the paint. Cold radiated from it.

She hesitated. Then, pressing both hands against it, she pushed.

Paint flaked away. A door groaned open.

She squinted as blinding light streamed in, wind rushing past her into the sterile room.

Outside, snow stretched in every direction. Trees stood bare and skeletal, their limbs glistening with ice. Flurries danced in the air like ash from some forgotten fire.

She stepped out, wrapping her arms around herself as the cold bit at her skin.

But when she turned—

The room was gone.

She spun around in alarm. Where the door had been, there was only more forest. Blank white. Endless.

Then—

“Follow…”

A whisper. Soft, gentle, like wind in a dream.

Her ears twitched.

She turned toward the sound. A soft blue orb flickered between the trees, pulsing faintly.

“Follow…”

The voice came again, wrapping around her like a lullaby. It wasn’t threatening. Just… haunting.

Cautiously, she moved forward, feet crunching in the snow. The orb drifted closer, hovering just beyond reach like it was waiting for her.

She reached out a hand.

“Follow… me…”

The orb met her palm.

A searing light exploded in her vision. She cried out, squeezing her eyes shut as warmth enveloped her. She felt her body lifting, suspended in weightless calm.

The wind stopped.

The cold vanished.

The stars whispered.

Then, from the light, a voice echoed — quiet, loving.

“Welcome home, Xayah.”

Chapter Text

    “You know,” came a smooth, teasing voice, “you’d probably get around faster if you just changed your shape into something like me.”

Xayah didn’t turn immediately. She was seated cross-legged on a floating platform of condensed stardust, drifting quietly in the vacuum between luminous nebulae. In front of her hovered three glowing orbs, pulsing faintly with celestial energy — cosmic order stars, awaiting assignment.

Behind her, Anivia glided in lazy loops, wings formed of rippling light and ice. Her crystalline feathers refracted starlight into dancing patterns across the void. A glowing trail shimmered in her wake as she circled overhead.

Xayah finally looked back, her expression deadpan. “Thanks for the advice, Anivia. But I prefer to keep my feathers where they are.”

“Suit yourself,” Anivia chirped, tucking her wings and twirling upside down before flipping right-side up again. “I’m just saying, it’s much easier when you’re made of light and ice. Plus, you could look at least half as elegant as me.”

Xayah rolled her eyes and turned back toward the glowing stars. “Some of us actually read the mission orders instead of practicing pirouettes in zero gravity.”

“Touché,” Anivia replied with a cackle. She glided closer, folding her wings as she hovered behind Xayah. “Alright, show me what we’ve got. Just don’t tell me it’s another ‘rogue comet nest’ situation. If I have to chase down one more solar parasite, I swear I’ll implode myself.”

Xayah raised her hand, and the three order stars responded to her presence, rotating in place. Each one glowed with a distinct color: soft blue, pale yellow, and deep, ominous red. Her eyes lingered on the last.

Anivia immediately stiffened. “That’s… red. Seriously? I thought Xin and Varus handled all Neutron-class assignments.”

“They do. Usually.” Xayah’s brow furrowed. “But this one came to us. It’s locked to my signature.”

Anivia blinked. “Locked to—? Wait, you mean it was assigned to you directly?”

Xayah nodded. “I haven’t broken it open yet. But if it’s marked red, then whatever it is… it’s bad.”

She reached out slowly, placing her hand on the red star. A brilliant glow spread from her palm as the orb pulsed and fractured, splitting into dozens of smaller motes of light. They spun outward, arranging themselves in an elegant constellation above her — each mote carrying fragments of the mission data.

Xayah’s voice lowered, solemn as she read:

“Dear Handler, we appreciate your willingness to assist with this mission. We have detected anomalous activity deep within Sector N-84. We have confirmed the presence of Dark Star signatures. Identities unknown.

Your assignment is to observe and report. Do not engage. The presence of soul-star energies in the region has elevated this mission’s classification.

A guidance star is provided to lead you to the location. A signal star is also included — one-use emergency extraction only. Use wisely.

Good luck. And may the stars watch over you.”

Anivia muttered something under her breath in the ancient language of the Iceborn.

Xayah exhaled, already feeling the weight of the mission settle into her chest like cold gravity. “We move now. The longer we wait, the more time they have to spread.”

“Wait—” Anivia darted forward and caught her wrist. “Shouldn’t we verify this with Lux first? Maybe there’s a mix-up. Or maybe this is meant for a full squad.”

“They don’t make mistakes,” Xayah said flatly. “And if there’s a soul-star involved, I want to be there first.”

Her voice left no room for argument. She tapped the guidance star, and it flared to life, shooting forward like a comet. Without another word, Xayah leapt into flight behind it, her wings of sharpened energy trailing cosmic dust behind her. Anivia followed reluctantly.

    The guidance star led them into the deep edge of a dying nebula.

It had been nearly thirty minutes since it dissolved into stardust, its purpose fulfilled. Now, Xayah and Anivia crouched behind a fractured meteor embedded in the clouds, watching the faint silhouettes of four figures moving among the haze.

Dark Stars.

They whispered to each other in warped, silky voices, barely audible over the low hum of the nebula’s energy fields.

Xayah narrowed her eyes.

“Four of them,” she murmured. “Two undeveloped… and two I recognize.”

Anivia’s eyes flickered, refracting data through her lenses. “Jarvan and Shaco.”

“Confirmed.” Xayah’s grip tightened on the feathers at her hip. “They’re after something.”

From behind the starfield, a faint cry echoed — not of fear, but confusion. Vulnerable. Searching.

Then came the voice, taunting, saccharine.

“You poor little thing… all alone. Why don’t you come with us? We’ll show you the truth. The light’s a lie.”

“They found a protostar,” Xayah hissed.

Protostars were nascent celestial beings — raw energy, sometimes formed from the soul of the newly dead. Most never took shape, vanishing back into the cosmic tides. But the rare ones — the soul-stars — were reborn remnants of lives long gone. People who had once lived, once loved… now made anew in light.

Like her.

She had no memory of the life that came before — only fragments, like feathers caught in starlight. But she knew what she was now. And she’d be damned before she let another soul get devoured.

“On my mark,” she whispered.

Without hesitation, she darted from cover, flinging a fan of razor-sharp feathers forward. One struck true — a lesser Dark Star crumbled instantly into dust. The rest scattered, taken by surprise.

She landed with a flourish, daggers at the ready, the light of the nebula painting her silhouette in fierce reds and golds.

The scene was clearer now: one last lesser Dark Star, wide-eyed and unsure. Behind it — Jarvan, flame-bodied, with violet energy leaking from the cracked wound in his chest. Beside him, Shaco floated with eerie grace, dual daggers spinning lazily in his grasp, mask twisted in a grin.

Xayah didn’t wait.

“Anivia! Grab the protostar. Take the signal star. GO!”

Anivia nodded and vanished in a swirl of icy feathers, soaring past the distracted enemies.

Xayah lunged, feathers flying — but in a blink, pain bloomed in her side.

She gasped, staggering. A jagged shard of corruption had embedded itself just below her ribs — thrown by the last of the small Dark Stars. She wrenched it free and threw it back, vaporizing her attacker. But the damage was done. Her wound glowed faintly, pulsing with darkness.

Jarvan laughed. “You think you can stop us, little Defender? The Boss would rather have you than a half-born star. Wouldn’t you agree, Shaco?”

The jester simply twirled one dagger and giggled.

Xayah glanced back — just in time to see Anivia and the protostar shimmer into nothing.

Safe.

Good.

She spun, flung a second wave of feathers to scatter the enemy, then bolted in the opposite direction, aiming to get clear. The emergency beacon burned in her hand. She slammed it against her chest.

“Lux!” she shouted into the void. “I need to use my getaway now!”

No answer. But the star activated.

A surge of energy ripped through her.

She screamed as her body fractured into light.

    She hit the ground hard.

The galactic floor of the HQ shimmered beneath her, woven of stardust and nebula threads. Her chest rose and fell fast — not from breathing, but from raw energy surging through her form.

Every time she used her getaway, it felt like being torn apart and stitched back together — feathers first, then bone, then light.

The pain passed.

She sat up slowly, blinking at the kaleidoscope around her.

She was home.

The Cosmic HQ floated at the center of a massive crystalline nebula — an impossible structure made of light and thought. Its halls shimmered with starlight, its towers spiraled with cosmic threads. There were no true walls, just force fields shaped like architecture.

“Xayah!” a voice cried.

And then she was tackled.

Anivia buried her glowing head against Xayah’s chest, wings fluttering with relief. “You’re okay. I was so scared.”

Xayah managed a small smile, even as she pushed herself to her feet. “I’m alright. Just used up my only escape route.”

Anivia sobered. “I know. But you saved him.”

Xayah nodded. “Where is he?”

Anivia brightened. “He fully formed right after we arrived. A soul-star. No memories, but stable. Lux is with him now.”

“Take me to him,” Xayah said softly.

Anivia chirped softly beside her as they walked. “You know… seeing him form kind of reminded me of you.”

Xayah glanced over, brow raised.

“I mean, not the face,” Anivia added quickly. “But the way the light settled into him. The way his energy pulled together from so many scattered particles… it reminded me of how you looked when the stars chose you.”

Xayah didn’t answer right away.

She remembered it — or at least, parts of it.

She had awoken in a cradle of stardust, drifting just beyond the veil of the event horizon. Her form had slowly gathered itself from the particles of a collapsed star — not torn apart by corruption, but reborn by some last spark of longing. She hadn’t known her name, only the ache of something lost, and the pull of something waiting.

Lux had found her there — pulled her out of the dark.

“They said I was born from the aftermath of a dying dusk,” Xayah murmured at last. “A soul that refused to let go. I didn’t choose to be reborn… but I think something inside me did.”

Her eyes lowered to her hands — dark violet talons wreathed in soft glimmers of golden starlight.

She had always looked different from the other defenders. Her body shimmered with a deep indigo hue, scattered with constellations across her limbs like ancient tattoos. Her hair flowed behind her like a nebula’s tail — a cascading blend of plum and night-sky blue, tipped with radiant streaks of sunset. Her wings, elegant and curved, were translucent with refracted starfields inside them — like windows into a dying galaxy.

Where most Cosmic Defenders wore armor shaped of forged light, Xayah’s garb was made of duskweave — ancient remnants of twilight itself. A sweeping feathered cloak clung to her shoulders, threaded with glowing strands of comet silk and haloed in soft rose-gold highlights. Her eyes burned with molten gold, but they never sparkled. Not anymore.

“I think I was someone once,” she said, quieter. “Someone who wasn’t ready to disappear.”

Anivia tilted her head. “You’ve always seemed like someone the universe fought to keep.”

Xayah gave a faint smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“That’s the problem,” she murmured. “I don’t know if I’m who I was, or just what’s left of her.”

Anivia fell silent. They both knew soul-stars were rare — souls that had either loved too fiercely or lost too deeply to fully vanish. It was a blessing. It was also a curse.

And now… there was another.

They ascended a stairwell made of folded stars, the steps glowing beneath their feet. At the top, Anivia led her to a room of pale light. Inside, Lux stood by the central table, her white and lavender hair cascading over one shoulder. She turned as they entered, smiling.

“Xayah. You made it back.”

“We completed the mission.”

Lux nodded. “And saved a soul-star. A rare thing these days.”

She stepped aside, revealing the figure behind her.

And time stopped.

Xayah stared.

He stood tall, radiant — his skin glowing with golden light, his hair catching the nebula’s colors like a crown. His eyes, though filled with wonder and confusion, were unmistakable.

He tilted his head.

“Hi,” he said with a lopsided smile. “I’m Rakan. I guess… I’m new.”

Xayah’s knees nearly buckled.

Her soul — the part she thought long gone — began to hum.

He didn’t remember her.

But the stars had brought him back.

And the stars never forgot.

Chapter Text

    Xayah never believed in fate.

But as she stood in the crystalline hall of the Cosmic Council, surrounded by pulsing nebulae and starlight strands of command, staring at the man she had once loved more than life itself, she couldn’t help but wonder—was the universe really this cruel?

To bring him back.

Only to erase everything they once were.

Rakan stood before her, golden eyes wide with the wonder of rebirth, unaware of the heartbreak etched into her bones. His celestial form was radiant—protostar brilliance woven into every strand of his being. Stardust shimmered off his skin in waves. He looked like he’d been sculpted from dawnlight and comet fire.

But his gaze was void of recognition.

No spark. No flicker of memory.

Just polite curiosity.

“Hey,” he said with a grin that hurt too much to look at. “I’m Rakan. New protostar, apparently.”

And it was like being torn apart all over again.

She had barely survived the first time. She didn’t know if she could a second.

Xayah didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Her breath caught in her throat. Her feathers—normally smooth and sharp—twitched against her will, reacting to emotions she had trained herself to bury.

Lux’s voice was gentle, but distant.

“Xayah?” The councilor’s tone was laced with concern. “Are you alright?”

No.

But she lied anyway.

“I’m fine.”

Lux looked unconvinced, but didn’t push. “Rakan will begin his training soon. But for now, Xayah… you’ll be showing him around headquarters.”

Of course.

Xayah’s jaw clenched, but she nodded. “Right,” she murmured.

The universe wasn’t done playing games.

“Come on,” she said, turning away before her expression could betray her.

Rakan followed easily, that same light-footed bounce in his step. “Lead the way.”

He had no idea.

Not who she was.

Not who he was.

Not what they had once been—entangled stars burning across the cosmos, their love blazing so bright it defied death itself.

Now, he was nothing more than a stranger wearing a familiar smile.

    The halls of the Cosmic Defenders’ headquarters shimmered in quiet splendor. Each corridor was carved from raw stardust, its walls alive with drifting constellations that shifted depending on who passed through them. Cosmic winds rippled faintly, responding to presence, energy, intent.

Xayah walked ahead in silence, her form a silhouette against the glow. She could feel Rakan’s presence behind her—like a phantom pulse in her soul.

“This place is amazing,” he breathed. “I mean, wow—look at that!” He pointed upward as a swirling galaxy folded across the ceiling above them, stars spiraling like dancers. “Is it always like this?”

Xayah didn’t answer.

She was too busy keeping her composure. Too busy memorizing the cadence of his footsteps, the way he tilted his head, the way he still walked like he was half performing even when he thought no one was watching.

Some things hadn’t changed.

Too many had.

She stopped outside a starlit door humming with quiet energy. “This is your room.”

Rakan paused beside her, glancing at the door, then back at her with a boyish grin. “Guess this is home now.”

Xayah swallowed. “Yeah.”

Then she turned away, faster than she meant to.

She didn’t see the flicker of confusion that briefly darkened his features.

Didn’t see the way his hand twitched at his side, as if some part of him wanted to stop her.

He didn’t call out.

He had no reason to.

    She made it to Anivia’s quarters before the dam broke.

The moment the door closed behind her, Xayah sank to her knees on the starlit floor, feathers splaying around her like broken wings.

Anivia turned, cosmic frost trailing from her wingtips. Her expression softened immediately.

“Xayah,” she said quietly, “you saw him.”

Xayah nodded, trembling. “It’s him, Ani. It’s Rakan.”

Anivia approached, her large glowing eyes full of gravity and gentleness.

“He doesn’t remember anything,” Xayah whispered. “But I do. I remember everything.”

The stars pulsed faintly around them as the silence stretched.

Anivia finally spoke. “That shouldn’t be possible. Soul-stars aren’t supposed to carry memory.”

“I know.” Xayah dug her nails into her arms. “But I do. I remember our first mission. Our last fight. The way he held me when I was dying.”

Her voice cracked.

“I thought the universe would let me forget, too. But it didn’t.”

Anivia lowered her head. “And now he’s here, but not as he was.”

“He’s here,” Xayah said bitterly, “but I’m the only one who knows what we were.”

The cosmic phoenix opened her wings slowly, enveloping Xayah in warmth. “The stars brought him back for a reason. Maybe… maybe this is the start of something new.”

Xayah closed her eyes. “It just feels like the end.”

    Xayah left Anivia’s quarters with her cloak pulled tightly around her, the shadows of the hall swallowing her whole. Her steps were steady, but inside, she felt frayed. Hollowed out. The aching throb in her side was growing stronger — not just physical, but… cold. Wrong.

Dark Star energy never just wounded. It lingered.

She pressed her arm tightly over the pain blooming beneath her ribs and moved faster.

The halls were quiet, stars pulsing slowly in the walls. She was almost to the lift when a voice stopped her.

“Xayah.”

Lux’s voice was firm — less melodic now, more clipped with authority. She stood at the end of the corridor, arms folded, robes of woven light trailing behind her.

Xayah froze.

Lux’s boots echoed lightly as she walked closer. Her bright blue eyes narrowed the moment she saw the tension in Xayah’s shoulders. “Where are you going?”

Xayah didn’t look at her. “Out of the way, Lux.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Xayah flinched, but didn’t answer.

Lux stepped closer. “I saw it during the briefing. Thought I was imagining it. But now? You’re pale. You’re guarding your side. And your aura is… dimmer.”

Still, Xayah said nothing. She didn’t need this.

Lux’s tone softened, but there was iron underneath it. “You need to see Soraka.”

Xayah’s feathers flared slightly, but she forced them down. “It’s under control.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” Lux said, stepping to block her path fully now. “You’re leaking Dark Star energy. Do you know what that does to a soul-star, Xayah?”

Xayah’s silence was answer enough.

Lux’s expression twisted. Concern, frustration, maybe even fear. “What if it’s spreading? What if it reaches your heart?”

Xayah finally met her gaze — and for a moment, Lux saw something terrifying in her eyes. Not anger. Not even pain.

Resignation.

“I’ve survived worse.”

“And I won’t let you keep surviving in silence,” Lux snapped, her voice rising. “You don’t get to walk around with corruption crawling inside you like it doesn’t matter.”

There was a long pause. Neither of them moved.

Then, reluctantly, Xayah exhaled. “Fine.”

Lux turned, silently leading the way.

    The room was a sanctuary of stars and stillness.

Soft light glowed from the ceiling like gently breathing constellations. Floating lotus-like platforms of solidified nebulae drifted in midair, supporting charts, relics, and scrolls that rolled and unrolled themselves. The air smelled faintly of ozone and something floral — like starlilies blooming at the edge of the void.

Xayah sat on a crystal slab woven from cooled cosmic threads, the texture cold beneath her fingers. She didn’t flinch, but her breath was tight. Her wound was getting worse — she could feel it now, pulsing in time with something… external. Like the darkness wasn’t just inside her, but watching her.

Soraka emerged from the other side of the room, her hooves silent on the starlight-reflective floor. Her long hair floated like a trail of lunar silk, her skin glowing softly with divine warmth.

“Xayah,” she greeted gently, already sensing the disturbance in her aura. “Lie back.”

“I’m fine,” Xayah muttered as she slowly shifted into position, careful not to wince.

“You’re not,” Soraka replied with quiet certainty.

She reached out with fingers that glowed with celestial gold. They hovered just above Xayah’s side — not touching, but already illuminating the corruption beneath.

The wound was barely visible on the surface now. But Soraka didn’t need eyes to see what was wrong.

Her brow furrowed as her hand hovered over the torn energy.

“It’s Dark Star shard matter,” she said, her voice low. “It’s latched onto your core field. You must’ve been struck directly.”

“I pulled it out,” Xayah replied flatly. “Didn’t stop it.”

“No,” Soraka agreed. “It wouldn’t. Not from a proximity wound like this.”

She moved with practiced precision, weaving a lattice of golden strands between her fingers, drawing out the impurity slowly.

Xayah hissed through her teeth as the magic laced through her. It wasn’t the pain that made her tremble. It was the feeling — like something was being peeled away, something that had already fused with her.

The strands shimmered, then darkened. The energy fought back — hissing as it was drawn into Soraka’s containment globe.

“You should have come immediately,” the healer said quietly. “Another day, and it might’ve started threading into your essence. You’d have begun unraveling.”

“I’ve unraveled before,” Xayah whispered.

Soraka paused. “And you came back.”

Her hands moved again, smoother now. “But you don’t have to keep coming back broken, Xayah. You deserve more than that.”

A pause.

“And he’d want you whole.”

Xayah’s throat clenched. She didn’t answer.

A few minutes passed in silence, punctuated only by Soraka’s quiet spellsong. The pain began to ease, replaced by the numbing calm of golden light.

Finally, the glow receded.

“It’s gone,” Soraka said softly. “But the scar will remain. It’s tied to something more than just your body.”

Xayah sat up slowly, hand brushing her ribs. A faint star-shaped scar shimmered there — almost pretty, if not for the story it told.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice distant.

Soraka nodded and placed a hand over Xayah’s. “Be careful.”

“I always am.”

“That’s not the same as being kind to yourself.”

Xayah offered no reply.

She stood, cloak reforming over her shoulders with a shimmer of dusk-colored light. Before she turned to leave, she cast one more glance toward Soraka — not quite gratitude, not quite vulnerability.

Just acknowledgment.

    The door to Soraka’s chamber slid open with a gentle whisper, spilling a warm halo of healing light into the hallway. Xayah stepped out, cloak wrapped tightly around her, her jaw set. Her steps were slow, but deliberate. The pain in her side was dulled now, numbed by Soraka’s touch—but the wound beneath the surface still pulsed, deep and quiet and cold.

She needed distance.

She needed silence.

But someone was waiting for her.

“Xayah.”

She froze.

Rakan stood just a few feet away in the corridor, leaning against the wall as if he’d been there for some time. He straightened the moment she appeared, his hands at his sides, not reaching—but not backing off either.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Were you following me?”

“Not… exactly,” he said, pushing off the wall. “I was walking. You came out. Now we’re here.”

She huffed through her nose, brushing past him. “Great story. Move.”

“Wait,” he said quickly, stepping in front of her.

She stopped. Stared at him, feathers twitching.

He hesitated—then, quietly, “You saved me. Back in the nebula.”

Xayah’s gaze flickered.

“I didn’t realize it at first. I was… I don’t know what I was. Confused. Disoriented. But I remember your voice. Your feathers.” His eyes searched hers. “You pulled me out of there. If you hadn’t shown up…”

She looked away. “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He nodded slowly. “Still. Thank you.”

Silence stretched between them. The faint hum of the corridor’s cosmic flow filled the space they didn’t cross.

Rakan’s voice dropped a little. “I feel like we didn’t exactly get off to a great start.”

Xayah didn’t respond.

“I know I don’t remember much. I’m still learning who I am. Or who I’m supposed to be.” He scratched the back of his neck. “But around you, it’s like there’s… static in my chest. Like I’m tuning into something just out of reach.”

Xayah’s lips tightened. Her claws flexed at her sides.

“And when I look at you,” he added softly, “I feel like I missed something important. Something I should’ve known.”

“That’s not my problem,” Xayah said sharply.

Rakan blinked.

She pushed past him, her voice cutting through the air like a dagger. “Don’t go digging into me hoping to find answers about yourself. You want to know who you are? Fine. Figure it out. But don’t expect me to hold your hand through it.”

Rakan’s jaw clenched, not in anger—just in restraint. She was deflecting. Dodging.

Wounded.

He turned as she walked away, calling after her. “Then maybe I want to understand you.”

Xayah stopped, feathers flaring slightly.

“I don’t know what we were, if we were anything,” Rakan said. “But I’m here now. And I’m trying.”

A beat.

Xayah’s shoulders rose and fell in a silent breath. When she spoke again, her voice was low.

“Trying doesn’t undo what’s been done.”

She didn’t look back again.

And Rakan didn’t follow.

But the ache in his chest burned hotter than ever.

    Rakan found Anivia perched on one of the upper observatory platforms, high above the central halls. The starlit winds stirred her crystalline feathers, casting glimmers of refracted light across the marble floor. Above them, the sky bled softly from purple to gold, constellations slowly spinning in the quiet rhythm of the universe.

He hesitated at the threshold, then stepped forward.

“Anivia,” he said, voice quieter than usual.

She didn’t move at first, her gaze still fixed on the far horizon.

“You look unsettled,” she said at last, her voice as calm and cold as the space between stars.

Rakan huffed lightly. “That obvious, huh?”

Anivia turned, folding her wings slightly. “What troubles you?”

“It’s Xayah,” he said, without flinching. “I just… I don’t get it. I try to talk to her, and it’s like I’m opening a wound.”

Anivia said nothing.

“She saved me,” he went on. “From the Dark Stars. She didn’t have to. I didn’t even know who I was. But she risked herself anyway.”

Anivia nodded once. “That’s who she is.”

“But every time I try to thank her, every time I try to understand her…” He trailed off, then clenched his jaw. “It’s like I’m a ghost to her.”

“You are,” Anivia said softly. “To her, you are.”

Rakan blinked.

“She carries more than you know. Things no one else has seen.”

He looked at her, searching. “Then tell me. Please.”

Anivia studied him carefully. Then she spoke, slow and deliberate.

“Years ago, Xayah led a mission against the Dark Stars. It was supposed to be routine — a deep scan, outer fringe sector. The kind of mission she’d done dozens of times. But it wasn’t routine. It was a trap.”

Rakan stiffened.

“She lost her team,” Anivia continued. “She kept fighting. She was alone for too long. The Dark Star corruption got inside her — not just physically. It crawled into her thoughts. Warped her instincts. Broke her sense of self. That’s what they do, Rakan. They don’t just destroy your body. They devour your will.”

He swallowed hard. “But she came back.”

Anivia’s eyes darkened slightly. “Barely. When we found her, she was… quiet. Not broken, not lost — but something was missing. Or maybe something had taken root and never left.”

“And she healed?”

“She fought like hell,” Anivia said. “She still does. But she doesn’t trust her own light anymore. Doesn’t trust anyone to stand close without getting pulled in.”

Rakan felt the weight of it settle into his chest.

“That’s why she keeps pushing me away.”

Anivia nodded. “To her, you’re not just a stranger. You’re a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“Of who she was before the fall. Of everything she lost. Of everything she fought to crawl back from.”

A silence passed between them.

Then Anivia stepped forward, her voice quiet but sharp with meaning.

“If you care about her, Rakan—truly care—you need to reach her. Not with words. With action. With presence.”

He looked up at her, confused.

“Before she retreats again,” Anivia added. “Before she fades into the silence she’s been living in.”

He blinked. “You think she’s…?”

“I think she’s tired,” Anivia said. “And when someone is tired enough, they stop asking for help. They stop hoping anyone will follow.”

Rakan stood still for a moment, the stars swirling above him.

Then he nodded, the decision settling into his chest like gravity.

“I’ll go to her,” he said. “And this time… I won’t let her walk away alone.”

    The stars outside her window drifted like dying embers in a sea of silence.

Xayah sat alone at the edge of her bed, watching the Centauri Nebula pulse in slow-motion through the crystalline viewport. The lights didn’t soothe her anymore. They reminded her of what she carried — and what was spreading.

The scar beneath her ribs still glowed faintly. Faint threads of corruption snaked outward from it now, curling beneath her skin like blackened veins of obsidian. Soraka had done what she could. But it hadn’t been enough.

She hadn’t told anyone.

Not even him.

It had been a while now since Rakan’s arrival, and although the pain of him not remembering her still lingers, they have become fairly aquanited. He worried about her, and that worried her. 

A knock came — light, familiar.

She didn’t move.

“It’s me,” came Rakan’s voice.

After a moment’s pause, she stood and opened the door.

Rakan stood there with a mug of starlily tea in hand, a small flicker of concern in his golden eyes. “Didn’t see you at the mess. Brought something warm.”

Xayah took it silently and moved back toward the bed.

He followed, standing nearby as she sat. The silence between them wasn’t hostile — but it wasn’t peaceful either. Just full of all the things they still hadn’t said.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

Xayah stared at the nebula. “Define alright.”

Rakan exhaled slowly and leaned back against the wall. “You’ve been distant lately.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You noticed?”

“You’re not that hard to read,” he said with a faint smile.

Xayah said nothing. The tea sat untouched in her hands.

“I picked up a signal,” she said abruptly. “A trail. Dark Star activity.”

That got his attention.

“Where?”

“Outer edge of the Centauri Expanse. Close to the same anomalies from the last cycle.”

Rakan straightened. “Did you report it?”

“No.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

“Because they’d assign it to a full team. They’d quarantine the region, delay for weeks. We’d lose the trail.”

Rakan took a step forward. “You can’t go alone.”

“I’m not asking for permission.”

“I’m not giving you permission, I’m telling you you’re not doing this again.” His voice rose slightly. “You already fought them once. You almost—”

“Almost what, Rakan?” she snapped, standing. “Say it.”

He didn’t.

Her feathers bristled. “You think I don’t know what’s happening to me? That I don’t feel it? Every time I close my eyes, it’s in my veins, crawling through me like rot. But I’m still here. I pulled myself back once, and I’ll do it again. This ends with me.”

“You don’t have to be the one to end it alone.”

“That’s the only way I’ve ever done it,” she bit back.

Rakan’s fists clenched. “You’re not the only one who wants to fight. Or protect. Or save someone. You think you’re the only one hurting? The only one afraid of what’s coming?”

“You don’t get to be afraid,” she said, her voice quieter now, fiercer. “You get to live. You get to walk around without memory, without weight, without—without this.”

She gestured to herself, to the scar that still pulsed faintly beneath her armor. “You don’t remember what I lost.”

“And you won’t let me try to help you carry it,” he said. “Let me in, Xayah.”

She stepped back.

“I can’t.”

Then her hand flicked upward.

The air behind her tore open — a swirling wormhole, unstable and dark-edged, its center pulling at the air like a breath held too long.

Rakan’s eyes widened. “You can’t go through that alone.”

Xayah met his gaze one last time — her expression unreadable, but her body already turning.

“I have to.”

And then, she stepped through.

The gate rippled violently.

And without hesitation, Rakan ran after her.

Chapter Text

    The void beyond the rift felt colder than usual—like something ancient had taken a breath and never exhaled.

Xayah hovered near the perimeter of the anomaly, her gaze scanning the warped celestial terrain ahead. Fragmented starfields floated in suspended disarray. Broken moons spun in silence, tethered by trails of black stardust. Whatever had corrupted this part of the sector hadn’t just warped its matter—it had rewritten it.

She exhaled slowly, one gloved hand clutching her side. The wound from her last encounter with the Dark Stars hadn’t healed. Not really. Her body moved like it was fine. Her mind told her she wasn’t. And deep within that wound, something pulsed—faint, rhythmic, and wrong.

“You sure you wanna dive into that mess without backup?” Rakan’s voice cut through the hum of static in her comms. “Looks like the inside of a star exploded and lost its mind.”

She glanced over her shoulder. He floated a few meters away, one hand spinning idly as if tracing invisible shapes. Relaxed. Playful. Totally unaware.

“I didn’t drag you across three systems to turn back now,” she said dryly, voice steadier than she felt. “You’re the one who volunteered.”

“‘Volunteered’ is a strong word. You said, ‘I’ve got a lead, you in?’ and then jumped into a wormhole.”

“I knew you’d follow.”

He grinned, and something in her chest twisted. It was the same grin he’d given her a hundred times before. But now, it meant nothing to him.

“Whatever’s in this anomaly, it’s bleeding into nearby sectors,” Xayah said, her voice firm. “We need to trace the source and shut it down before it spreads.”

He nodded. “Alright. You lead, I’ll hit stuff.”

They drifted deeper into the breach, guided by the soft thrum of their armor’s navigation pulses. The rift’s energy grew more chaotic the closer they got to its center. Time didn’t feel right here. Stars blinked in and out of visibility, and the light bent at angles that made Xayah’s vision swim.

She clenched her jaw, ignoring the way her side pulsed again—stronger this time.

Rakan darted ahead to clear debris. He moved so effortlessly, like he’d always been a part of the stars. And maybe he had. The Starforger had rebuilt him. Reforged him as a protostar, radiant and untethered.

But in the process, they had taken everything.

His memory. His love. Her.

He cracked a voidling open with a solar feather. “These things don’t usually pop up this far from the core. Must be something nasty pulling the strings.”

Xayah nodded absently, scanning the far horizon. The corrupted landscape was alive with movement—shadows shifting under cracked asteroid husks, oily energy dripping from malformed comet shards.

“Rakan,” she said, her voice tight. “Over there. That tear—do you see it?”

He followed her line of sight. “Yeah. Looks like something’s leaking out.”

A gaping wound in space pulsed like a heartbeat. Around it, the fragments of stars twisted unnaturally. Dark matter bled from the edges, thick and glistening like cosmic oil.

“Could be the epicenter,” she murmured.

“Could also be a death trap.”

“We’ll find out.”

As they neared it, the voices returned—not from the comms. Not from Rakan. From inside.

He’s not yours anymore.

He’s forgotten you.

And soon, everyone else will too.

Xayah flinched and pressed a hand to her side. The whispers slithered through her bones, pulling her focus toward the anomaly. Her feathers tingled. Her power—once fluid and bright—now felt jagged.

“Hey,” Rakan said, noticing her pause. “You alright?”

“Fine,” she lied.

“Uh-huh. The kind of ‘fine’ that gets you killed, or the kind where you just hate my jokes?”

“I’m leading this. Trust me.”

He shrugged. “You got it.”

They descended toward the tear. The light here was strange—colors bled where they shouldn’t, and the air (though there was none) felt heavy. Rakan moved ahead, clearing more of the strange growths that pulsed like nerves.

Xayah hung back, trying to stabilize herself. Her wound throbbed violently now. Every breath felt thick. She raised her hand and summoned her feathers—but they wavered. A few shimmered with a violet sheen. That wasn’t right.

“Rakan, don’t get too far ahead—” she started.

Too late.

A pulse erupted from the anomaly. Not just energy—a scream. A silent one. It knocked them both backward. Xayah slammed into a floating rock shard, gritting her teeth as pain lanced up her spine.

And then came the creatures.

Twisted starspawn poured from the rift, all gnashing void-teeth and spiral limbs. Their eyes glowed with the same corruption pulsing inside her.

“Guess we found the welcoming committee!” Rakan shouted, already lunging.

They fought together, wordless instinct kicking in. He was fast. She was ruthless. Their rhythm returned like muscle memory—feathers and light, speed and precision. But it was different this time.

She was slower.

Sloppier.

And then it happened.

One of the voidcreatures—larger than the others—emerged from the core. It didn’t attack. It watched. And when Xayah turned to face it, it mirrored her movement. For a second, she swore she saw her own face reflected in its surface—twisted and bleeding dark matter.

The pain in her side flared into agony. Her knees buckled.

“Xayah!” Rakan turned toward her—but he was too far.

The creature moved.

A long, obsidian blade arced through her side.

She didn’t scream.

She couldn’t.

Her feathers scattered as she fell.

“XAYAH!”

The light in her vision flickered. She saw Rakan leap—his form trailing fire as he carved the monster down. She saw his hands reach for her, voice echoing with a panic he never showed.

“Stay with me—don’t—don’t you blackout, you hear me?!”

She smiled weakly, blood misting the air around her. “You came back…”

“Stop talking. Just—stop.”

He held her tightly as he activated his emergency warp. The stars spun violently around them, and she let go.

    Rakan didn’t wait.

He slammed into the medical bay with a streak of light and sound, barking orders before the medics even reached them.

“She’s bleeding out—something stabbed her—her readings are all wrong, just do something!”

They rushed to work. Machines hummed. Lights blinked red.

He stood frozen, her blood still on his hands, heart pounding with something he didn’t understand. Why did it feel like he was losing something more than just a teammate?

He stared at her face—pale, lips barely parted.

“C’mon, Xayah… don’t quit now…”

She was still.

But the stars outside stirred—and somewhere deep in the night, the past began to remember itself.

    The starlit corridors of the Cosmic Defenders’ headquarters felt colder than usual, even though they hummed with radiant energy. Somewhere overhead, the great celestial lattice pulsed with light, tracing the paths of constellations still being born.

Rakan sat outside the medbay, blood drying on his gloves.

He hadn’t moved in hours.

“She’s stable, for now.”

Soraka’s voice barely registered. He didn’t look up.

“But the wound… whatever pierced her wasn’t just matter. It disrupted her star-thread. We’re still analyzing it. She shouldn’t be alive, frankly.”

Rakan swallowed hard.

“So fix her.”

Soraka hesitated. “We’re trying. But… this might be something older than even we’ve dealt with. Something that’s not supposed to exist in our cosmos.”

He barely heard it.

All he saw was her body—still and silent behind layers of containment fields. Her feathers had dulled. Her breathing was shallow. Like even her soul had dimmed.

Rakan stood slowly. “She say anything before she passed out?”

Soraka blinked. “No. Why?”

“No reason.” He turned toward the glass wall, watching her chest rise and fall. “She just looked at me like she knew me.”

    Later, when the corridors quieted, Rakan found himself standing alone in the observatory.

He didn’t know why he was here.

It wasn’t like him to sulk. He didn’t even know how to sulk.

But something about what happened clawed at him. A feeling. A flicker.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—bleeding, broken, whispering something he couldn’t quite hear. And the way she’d looked at him before the warp—like she knew something he didn’t.

“She said I came back…”

His voice echoed in the chamber.

Came back from what?

He didn’t remember anything before he became a protostar. The Starforger had given him light, life, purpose. But he’d never asked what came before. He’d never needed to.

Until now.

Until her.

He clenched his fists, jaw tight.

“I don’t even know her,” he muttered.

But that wasn’t true. Not really.

Her fighting style had matched his. Her rhythm, her timing. They’d fought in sync like a binary star system spiraling together.

That wasn’t training. That wasn’t coincidence.

That was history.

His history.

And it scared the hell out of him.

    Xayah dreamed of stars bleeding into the sea.

She stood on a cliff, her wings outstretched, feathers falling like petals into the void. Beneath her, a voice whispered—a child’s voice, but distorted, laced with laughter and hunger.

You can’t keep him forever. Stars forget. Stars always forget.

Her side burned. Her limbs were heavy. But something inside her pulsed harder than the pain—something old and unrelenting.

She opened her eyes slowly.

The ceiling above her blurred into focus, and for a moment she forgot where she was. Her fingers curled against the smooth surface of the bed, searching.

No feathers.

No weapons.

She was stripped down to the soul.

Then she remembered.

The anomaly. The tear. Rakan’s face above her—scared. Desperate.

He had come for her.

Xayah tried to sit up but gasped, clutching her side. A web of dark matter pulsed faintly just beneath her skin—veins of corruption threaded through her like roots.

Her power flared weakly, but it was wrong. Her feathers shimmered faintly in the air, but one of them—just one—was tainted violet at the tip.

Her breath caught.

No. No no no.

Not again.

She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the energy down. Forcing it down.

If the others knew she was infected… they wouldn’t risk it. They’d do what Cosmic Defenders had to do.

Purge the threat.

Kill the corruption.

Kill her.

    Outside, Rakan stood at the threshold, watching through the glass.

The lights around her containment bed flickered once—barely noticeable.

But he noticed.

He always noticed her.

“Dammit…” he muttered, stepping back.

She was awake. And she was hiding something.

It was in her eyes.

The same look she gave him before the creature struck her. Not fear. Not pain.

Guilt.

He turned before the door hissed open and left the wing without a word.

    The Council convened briefly to assess the situation.

A high-ranked astral defender named Keryx filed a report: the anomaly was expanding. The rift hadn’t closed after the skirmish—it had grown. Their presence had agitated it.

Something on the other side had noticed them.

And it had marked Xayah.

She listened from a private chamber, still too weak to walk without aid. Her fists clenched around the edges of her robe as words filtered through the comms.

“…this kind of corruption predates even the Starforger’s knowledge…”

“…the wound is quantum-bound, laced with entropy signatures not native to this galaxy…”

“…she may not survive…”

Xayah shut the feed off.

They didn’t need to say the last part. She already knew.

And yet…

She had survived.

Barely.

Because he had carried her through starlight.

She curled inward, gripping the feather with the violet tip.

“I’m not done,” she whispered.

    Rakan stood under the artificial sky dome, watching auroras flicker across its simulated night. He was alone. Again.

He thought of her voice. Her pain. That look.

Something about it had burned deeper than anything he’d felt since his rebirth.

“Who were you to me?”

He didn’t expect an answer.

But in the silence, a thought drifted in.

Not from memory. Not from logic.

From somewhere buried deeper.

She was your beginning.

    The station was silent—too silent for Rakan’s taste. He could feel the hum of the stars above him, the resonance of a cosmic harmony that was supposed to soothe him, but it only added to his discomfort. The corridors seemed endless, each step echoing with a deep sense of something lost. Something that kept pulling at him, even when he couldn’t understand why.

“I came back…” The words he’d whispered in the observatory the other night still reverberated in his mind.

What did that mean? What had he come back from? Who had he been before this rebirth as a protostar?

He couldn’t remember anything. But he knew—he knew—that something, or someone, had made him feel whole. A flicker of familiarity, of something irreplaceable. The sharp, familiar flash of feathers. The heat of a bond.

Xayah.

Her face, her voice, her presence—it was there, constantly lurking in the periphery of his mind. But he couldn’t grasp it. Every time he reached for the memory, it slipped away like stardust through his fingers.

He hadn’t dared approach her again after leaving the medbay. She was too fragile. Too dangerous. For all he knew, she might not be the same person she was before the anomaly. That strange wound, those violet-streaked feathers… The corruption was eating away at her, piece by piece, and he wasn’t sure he could do anything about it.

“We can’t lose her,” he’d overheard someone say as they shuffled past him, talking about her condition, about the quantum-bound wound she’d taken. The strange entropy signatures. All signs of something that shouldn’t exist.

But even worse was the look she had given him before she collapsed, before the blackness of unconsciousness swallowed her whole. Guilt. As if she had something to hide. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen it before.

No—he had seen it before.

Xayah. She was a part of him, and he of her. His history, his heart, everything was tied to her, even if he didn’t remember it.

    Xayah’s body was still in the medbay, tucked within the protective glow of healing fields. Soraka was silently observing her condition. The healing light that enveloped Xayah was soft, but it did little to erase the severity of her injury.

Xayah could feel the faint pulse of energy seeping from her, like the ebb and flow of a tide too strong to hold back. Something ancient, dark, and hungry. The corruption wasn’t just a wound—it was a presence, pushing against her from the inside. Its grip tightened with every passing moment.

She opened her eyes, though it took more effort than it should have. The flickering lights above seemed too sharp, too blinding.

“Xayah?” Soraka’s voice broke through the haze, soft and calming.

Xayah’s lips parted, but only a faint rasp escaped her throat. She looked up, her hazel eyes clouded with confusion and pain. There was no hiding the raw terror that burned beneath her exterior.

“What happened?” Xayah’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “I need to…”

“You need to rest,” Soraka interrupted, her voice tinged with gentle authority. “The corruption is too deep for any of us to fully understand. You can’t rush this.”

Xayah wanted to argue, wanted to push herself out of this bed and into the fight, but her body betrayed her. Every movement, every breath was a struggle. The corrupted veins, faint but noticeable beneath her skin, pulsed with an unsettling energy. This wasn’t just a physical wound. This was something worse.

Something familiar.

Her fingers brushed against the soft fabric of her robes, as though searching for something that had once been there. But the memory evaded her.

“Rakan…” The name fell from her lips almost without her consent.

At the mention of his name, Soraka hesitated. “He’s been worried about you.”

Xayah’s chest tightened. She swallowed, ignoring the sharpness of the pain that cut through her ribs. The guilt was back, twisting inside her like a vine tightening around her heart.

But Rakan… He wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t.

    Rakan leaned against the railing, looking out into the abyss of space. The stars flickered far away, reminding him of distant memories that felt out of reach. He’d been here for hours, just staring at the vast nothingness, as if waiting for some kind of answer to come.

The problem was, answers were like stars—they burned brightly and vanished just as quickly.

He wanted to ask someone. He wanted to scream at someone, to demand they tell him what was happening to him, to Xayah, to everything. He didn’t understand why her name burned in his chest or why the memory of her felt more real than the very reality he lived in.

The doors behind him opened with a soft hiss, and Nidalee, the high-ranked defender, stepped inside. She was tall, a figure draped in the heavy golden robes of a council member.

“Rakan,” Nidale said, her voice low, almost like a growl. “You’re not supposed to be out here. Your presence is needed in the debrief.”

Rakan didn’t move. He didn’t even acknowledge the order. His hands gripped the railing tighter, his knuckles whitening. “I can’t—”

“You need to,” Nidale interjected sharply. “There are matters beyond your personal… feelings. You may not remember much, but we’re on the brink of something catastrophic. The anomaly is growing. If we don’t act quickly, the corruption will spread beyond Xayah.”

Rakan turned his head slowly, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean by ‘corruption’?”

“It’s not just the wound,” Nidalee replied. “This—this is something older, more dangerous. It’s a force that predates even the Starforger’s existence. And it’s seeking something in her. The wound she received was just the beginning.”

Rakan stood up straight, his heart racing. He didn’t know why, but something inside him twisted with dread at the thought of Xayah being consumed by whatever this was.

“How do we stop it?” His voice was hoarse.

Nidalee didn’t answer immediately, as though weighing the consequences of what she would say next.

“We don’t know yet. But we need to act quickly. If we fail… we risk losing her.”

     Xayah’s chest tightened as Soraka checked the readings on the medical device hovering over her. The atmosphere in the room felt heavier than it should have.

Her body was still reeling, but the poison—the corruption—was creeping in, slowly taking over the light inside her. She could feel the pull of it, like a dark tide pulling at the fabric of her being.

“We’re losing her, aren’t we?” Soraka murmured.

Xayah didn’t have the strength to argue. She knew. The corruption wasn’t just about her physical body. It was about her soul. Her connection to the stars.

But there was one thing she had to do before it consumed her completely.

She reached for her communicator, the one that linked her to the one person who still made her feel something.

Rakan.

“Come for me,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. “Please… come for me.”

Chapter Text

    Rakan jerked upright, his breath catching mid-step in the middle of the observation deck.

He wasn’t sure what he’d just heard.

No—felt.

Not a sound. Not quite a thought. Something deeper. A tremor beneath his consciousness.

Rakan…

There it was again. A whisper, thin and fading, barely more than a breath across the void of his mind.

He turned, scanning the glowing archways, but the halls were empty—just the soft thrum of station systems and distant pulses of starlight overhead.

Rakan… please…

His knees buckled.

That voice.

He knew that voice.

It reached into a part of him that shouldn’t exist—a place hollowed out by rebirth and forgotten by time. Something tight cinched around his chest, like invisible hands gripping his ribs from the inside.

He pressed a hand over his heart. The pulse there was erratic.

Another whisper coiled through his thoughts.

Come for me… please…

His feathers flared instinctively, energy bristling as instinct kicked in. For a split second, he almost called for backup.

But then it hit him.

A flash.

A field of shattered moonlight. A woman with feathers like nebulae streaking through her wings. Her eyes blazing as she grabbed his hand mid-fall.

“Don’t even think about dying, you idiot!”

He gasped. The corridor spun.

More flashes: her voice shouting over comms. Her hands bandaging his ribs. Her laugh echoing off metal hulls. The taste of starlight on her lips.

Xayah.

The name thundered through his mind like a nova.

She wasn’t a stranger.

She was his.

And she was dying.

     He didn’t walk.

He ran.

Blinding speed through the halls, knocking over carts and dodging confused defenders.

Each step brought more memories.

Singing her back to consciousness when she was wounded. Holding her hand beneath an eclipse they’d stolen time to watch. The sound of her breath in the seconds before a fight.

And then—her death.

Or maybe it was his.

All he knew was pain. Separation. The way her name had been torn from his memory.

Until now.

Until she called him back.

He crashed into the medbay doors, nearly ripping them off their cosmic hinges.

Inside, the room was quiet—too quiet.

Anivia stood near the foot of the bed, still and solemn. Soraka stood over the medical console, arms folded tightly, lips drawn in a hard line.

And there—on the bed—

Xayah.

Her body was thin, frail, wrapped in starlight suppressors that barely held her together. The faint glow of corruption webbed out across her skin in violet cracks. Her feathers had dulled to the color of dying embers.

But her eyes… her eyes flickered open as he entered.

She saw him.

And her lips moved.

“Rakan…”

He fell to his knees beside the bed, catching her hand. It was cold. So cold.

“I remember,” he choked. “I remember all of it.”

She smiled—weak, fragile. “Took you long enough.”

“Xayah—no. No, stay awake. I’m here. I’m not letting go.”

Soraka stepped forward, her tone neutral. “You’re not too late. But you will be if you don’t listen.”

He looked up, desperate.

“Tell me what to do.”

Soraka’s gaze was not unkind—but it wasn’t moved by emotion, either. Her hands remained folded, her horn faintly aglow as she measured them both.

“I won’t lie to you,” she said. “There’s nothing I can do for her here.”

Rakan stood slowly, his feathers bristling. “But there’s someone who can, right?”

“She shouldn’t be alive,” Soraka said calmly. “She shouldn’t have remembered anything from before.”

He blinked. “What…?”

“She was remade, like you. And yet her memories stayed.” She stepped closer, “You weren’t the first Defender to be reborn. And you won’t be the last. But none of them… not one… remembered what came before.”

Rakan’s stomach dropped.

“I thought maybe it was trauma. A flaw. A spark of something irreconcilable. But over time, I began to suspect something else.”

She glanced at Xayah—pale, trembling, but clinging on like a star refusing to collapse.

“She’s not defective. She’s something far rarer.”

Soraka raised her staff, and a thin ribbon of energy curved through the room, revealing a spiraling constellation—two stars in perfect, bound orbit.

“She’s a soul-star. And so are you.”

The word hung in the air like a divine truth.

Rakan blinked, stunned. “A what?”

“Soul-stars aren’t just lovers. They aren’t just cosmic pairings or combat partners.” Soraka’s voice softened, just slightly. “They’re echoes of souls so deeply intertwined that even death cannot sever them. They transcend cycles of life and rebirth.”

She looked directly at Rakan.

“You didn’t remember her because of chance. And she didn’t hold on because of will. You were meant to find each other again. That’s what soul-stars do.”

Rakan sank down again, his hand gripping Xayah’s tightly.

“She’s not supposed to die,” he murmured.

“She’s not supposed to be fading.”

“No,” Soraka agreed. “But she will—unless you do something unthinkable.”

A cold wind stirred the room, a ripple of tension moving through the gravity around them.

Behind Soraka, Anivia stepped forward. Her feathered crest was lowered, her ancient eyes locked on Xayah with something closer to reverence than grief.

“I always knew she was different,” Anivia said. “In the way she fought. In the way her power shaped itself around others. And the way… the way she looked at the stars.”

She glanced at Rakan. “But this? I never imagined.”

Soraka turned back to Rakan, her tone now steady, formal.

“There is only one being who could reforge a soul-thread this deeply entangled. One who forged the first cosmic vessels—the First Flame of the stars.”

She opened her palm.

A star map unfolded into the air—glitching, ancient, partially incomplete.

Rakan stared.

“You’re serious,” he whispered.

Soraka nodded.

“Aurelion Sol,” she said. “The Starforger.”

The room went still.

Even the machines paused their rhythmic hum.

Anivia folded her wings. “That old god still exists?”

Soraka nodded. “He sleeps in the folds between galaxies. Near the event horizon of a dying star cluster. His domain is perilous, his presence divine. And he does not answer calls. Not even mine.”

Rakan looked from the map to Xayah, who had begun to tremble again beneath the pressure of the corruption. Her breath stuttered. Her soul-flicker faded in the scanner above.

“Then I’ll go,” he said. “I’ll carry her there myself.”

“Even if he refuses you?” Soraka asked.

Rakan’s hand trembled as he brushed a strand of hair from Xayah’s face. “I’ll make him remember why he forged us in the first place.”

Soraka considered him for a long moment. Then, she reached into her robes and pulled out a crystalline shard, pulsing softly with stellar resonance.

“This is the route. The last recorded pathway before contact with his realm was lost. You’ll have to cross rift-storms, gravitational tears, and soul compression zones.”

Rakan took it, slipping it into his chestplate.

Then Anivia stepped closer.

“You’re not doing this alone,” she said. “I’ll fly with you. She’s not just your partner. She was mine too.”

Rakan looked at her—and for once, no words were needed.

“Thank you,” he said.

Anivia turned to Soraka. “Prep a ship. Fastest one we’ve got.”

“And untraceable,” Rakan added.

Soraka nodded. “You leave tonight. The path won’t wait.”

As they prepared, Rakan turned one last time to the woman still clinging to a single thread of memory and breath.

“Hang on, Feathers,” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers. “We’re going to the beginning. To the one who made us.”

He closed his eyes.

“And we’ll make him remember, too.”

    The ship was small, nimble, and stripped of all excess weight. It shimmered with reinforced hull plating made to withstand gravitational collapse and bore only the essentials: stellar rations, navigational equipment, emergency shielding, and three bodies—two of them alive, one barely holding on.

Xayah lay cradled in a stasis field at the heart of the cabin, suspended in shimmering light. The corruption had slowed inside the field, but not stopped. Her soul-thread pulsed faintly, like a signal fraying with every passing hour.

Anivia stood at the helm, eyes narrowed as she plotted the course.

“Coordinates locked,” she said. “Past the Nebula Fold, through the silence rift. No beacon trails. This is going to be rough.”

Rakan knelt beside Xayah. He barely moved from her side. His hand remained in hers, fingers curled tight.

“Good,” he said. “Let it be.”

    They left the headquarters in silence.

Soraka had said nothing as they boarded—only watched, that ever-neutral stare giving away nothing of what she might’ve believed would happen.

But Rakan had felt something in her silence.

Respect, maybe.

Or pity.

The Nebula Fold came first.

A violent belt of ionic storms. A graveyard of derelict stations and lost lightships, all victims of spatial turbulence and devouring plasma clouds.

They made it through on instinct and Anivia’s flight control alone, weaving between collapsing matter and magnetic pulls that tried to rend the hull apart.

More memories returned with every close call.

Rakan remembered how Xayah used to curse when they drifted too close to danger. How she used to lean forward and grin at the edge of destruction, like every brush with chaos made her feel more alive.

“You’d be yelling at me right now,” Rakan whispered to her unmoving form. “And then you’d kiss me for pulling us through.”

Her hand twitched.

Just a fraction.

But enough.

Beyond the Fold, they entered the Silence Rift.

A place no stars lived.

Sound itself didn’t move here—neither did time.

Rakan couldn’t breathe when they crossed the threshold. Not because of space. Because of the weight.

It pressed on his chest. On his memory.

He heard things that had never been said—things she would’ve told him if they hadn’t died.

“I would’ve given everything to stay with you…”

“Even now, I’d still choose you.”

It almost broke him.

Anivia had to fly that stretch alone.

On the fifth cycle, the crystal shard Soraka had given them began to glow.

“Ahead,” Anivia said.

Rakan stood slowly, lifting Xayah into his arms. Her breath was shallow. The stasis was failing.

Beyond the viewport, a brilliant ribbon of starfire spread across space like the curtain of a stage lifting on the final act.

Aurelion Sol’s domain.

It was not a place.

It was a presence.

They entered the fold—and the universe changed.

     They stepped into a place where stars went to be reborn—or to die.

The cosmos no longer obeyed logic here. Constellations looped endlessly in spirals that broke apart and stitched themselves back together. Planets hung frozen mid-implosion. Rivers of molten starlight flowed in reverse across voids that shouldn’t have held anything at all.

And in the center of it all… something vast.

Coiled through an orbit of living flame was a being whose scales shimmered with galaxies. His eyes—two radiant suns, burning without mercy—opened as the ship drew near.

Anivia landed them with a hard shudder, her voice low and reverent.

“He’s awake.”

Rakan stepped out, Xayah in his arms. The sheer pressure of the Starforger’s presence buckled his knees. He stood anyway.

The dragon stirred.

Aurelion Sol unfolded slowly, space bending around his form, a trail of constellations rippling behind every movement. He looked down—not just at them, but through them.

When he spoke, it wasn’t sound. It was the vibration of existence itself.

“You trespass in the crucible of origin.”

Rakan’s voice cracked as he answered, trembling under the divine gaze. “She’s dying.”

“All things die.”

“She shouldn’t.” He stepped forward, teeth gritted, Xayah’s limp form heavy in his arms. “You made us. You forged us for something more than this. Look at her—look what she is.”

A pause.

“She is a soul-star.”

Anivia stiffened.

Rakan nodded. “Then you know. You feel it.”

The dragon exhaled, and the air around them sang with solar wind.

“Soul-stars are not meant to endure this long. Their purpose ends when the thread breaks.”

“She remembered,” Rakan growled. “She fought every system you built just to hold on to me.”

Aurelion Sol said nothing.

But space rippled—subtle, like a question forming behind his silence.

Rakan lowered his head. “Please. I’ll give anything. Just save her.”

For the first time, the cosmic wyrm lowered his gaze.

“Would you give yourself?”

Rakan blinked.

“I—what?”

“Not your light. Your shape. Your star. Would you surrender your celestial form—be unmade—to restore hers?”

Anivia stepped forward, talons sparking. “He shouldn’t have to—”

“I would,” Rakan whispered. “Gladly.”

The silence that followed was so deep the stars themselves seemed to freeze.

Then: a heartbeat.

Aurelion Sol moved.

He descended in a swirl of light, and the power of him dimmed the entire nebula. One claw, massive and radiant, reached out—and touched Xayah’s forehead.

Her corruption flared once.

Twice.

And then—

Gone.

A burst of light surged from her chest. Her feathers flared golden. Her breath returned in a gasp as her eyes snapped open.

“Rakan?”

He dropped to his knees.

“You came back.”

He laughed, half-sobbing. “Of course I did.”

Her arms reached for him, weak but real. Their foreheads pressed together.

Then Aurelion Sol spoke once more.

“Soul-stars must burn in harmony.”

And he released them.

As the heavens trembled, Rakan and Xayah rose together—wings unfurling, energy spiraling. Anivia shielded her eyes as they began to glow, no longer defenders, but something more.

A waltz. A rhythm.

A single breath shared across galaxies.

They danced—one final, perfect orbit.

And as the light consumed them, Aurelion Sol tilted his head and murmured something only the stars could hear:

“As it was written.”

    They stood together in the hush that followed salvation, their hands still clasped, their forms rimmed with radiant light.

The corruption was gone. Xayah’s breath came easy now, though her body still trembled—fragile, weightless.

She looked up at him, eyes full of awe and tears.

“You really came for me,” she whispered.

“I always do,” Rakan said softly, brushing a lock of hair from her brow. “You just beat me to remembering.”

She gave a breathless laugh, her wings twitching weakly.

Rakan didn’t speak. He just stepped closer and slipped his hand behind her back, drawing her near. Their foreheads touched again.

“I think I remember how to dance,” she murmured.

“You don’t have to,” he whispered, resting his forehead against hers. “This time, let me lead.”

She nodded.

And so he did.

Rakan took the first step.

Their feet didn’t touch the ground. The space around them, suspended in Aurelion Sol’s divine domain, responded to their breath, their heartbeat, their bond.

He moved with instinct older than words—one hand cradling hers, the other on the small of her back. He drew her into a slow turn, letting the rhythm of their rejoined souls shape the world around them.

Each motion became stardust.

Each step carved light into the void.

He lifted her gently into a spin, her wings spreading like a blooming galaxy around him. She laughed, breathless and free, and let herself fall back into him. He caught her easily—always.

Their orbit narrowed. Their pace quickened.

A waltz remembered not by muscle, but by memory—etched into the core of who they were. Xayah surrendered to his lead with trust so complete it gleamed in every motion. And Rakan—he held her like she was the gravity that kept him alive.

Because she was.

They spun again, faster now. Their bodies began to flicker—not fading, but transforming. Sheer energy. Feather and flare. Heat and harmony.

Rakan guided her through one final spiral, and when she turned to face him, their wings unfurled together, vast and radiant, drawing celestial arcs in the void.

No words were spoken.

They didn’t need them.

He dipped her low, their gazes locked, his arm strong around her back. She smiled up at him with a look that said this is home.

Then he pulled her into him—and the stars bowed in silence.

Their forms cracked open into brilliance.

No pain. No fear.

Just light.

Together, they rose. Their last step bled into eternity.

They became motion.

They became memory.

They became stars.

Two radiant orbs swirling around each other in perfect balance—bright, alive, unstoppable.

A binary system pulsing at the edge of space. Orbiting. Embracing. Never again apart.

And above it all, the Starforger watched from his perch in the folds of space and murmured through the burning dark:

“As it should be.”